His Brown Eyes
by when love was kind
Summary: The first time that Thomas Jefferson told Angelica Schuyler that he loved her was when she was twenty and god, he'd do it all over again. Thomangelica modern!au


When Angelica Schuyler is twenty, the first time Thomas Jefferson tells her he loves her is accidentally over the phone.

It isn't like how Laurens ends every talk with his parents with an automatic I love you that was programmed into him for years (which is good, all things considered) and passed onto nearly every conversation he had on the phone ever. She remembers being thirteen and hearing him tell her the good news that he had enlisted with Alex, "Alright, love you, bye," before he cursed at himself. First he was telling the pizza guy that he loved them when he called to order, then he was telling her, then he was telling Thomas' dad who very dramatically responded with a love you, too, son that made his mom hope it was Thomas on the phone.

Hah.

Hahaha.

That's really not very funny.

But before even the pizza guy, it was Thomas, and she honest to God remembers hearing him profess his love to someone on the other side of the phone and worrying it was a girlfriend.

But he just.. blurted it out. Like he meant it, not like it was an automatic habit he couldn't shake off like his smoking or something thoughtlessly added just because. He wasn't even talking to her, it was a message since she'd forgotten to charge her phone again, and that - dear God, it's been three hours and seventeen - eighteen - minutes since then. What must he be thinking?

She's standing there in a blue towel in her old room in her parents' house, toothbrush forgotten in her mouth, Peggy and Eliza crowding around her phone, her hair already starting to dry without being combed, and she's grinning at nothing, makes his deep voice play again on her phone.

 _"So I'm running late 'cause Hamilton is being an ass, again. I'm sorry, I know, I'll be late for our dinner reservations but I'll still order the white chocolate cake so you can have some even if you decide to order three slices of chocolate cake while you're waiting for me. But remember you don't like white wine since you never do when they decide not to card you. I'll try not to be too late. I'm sorry in case I probably forget to tell you again later. I love you, y'know? I -"_

And that's where he pauses at the twenty-three second line and doesn't speak again for seven. He sounds so flustered, and she can just see him tearing his hand through his hair, cheeks all red, leaning back against the wall, and cursing himself.

 _"I wasn't gonna tell you like that. I'm an idiot. But I love you, probably have for years, and you should probably move in with me legally instead of like all my closet space being used for all my old rap CDs, so -"_

And then it beeps because he's run out of time for his message, and she can see in her mind how horrified and angry at his phone he probably looked, and she plays the message again, holds onto her sisters, and squeals with them like they're lovesick teenagers again.

* * *

So she does legally move in with him, her name on the lease and everything.

Now there's more of her shoes in the closet and all her things in his place in boxes unpacked and fit randomly around the orderly chaos of his. Her toothbrush is next to his in a cute little pink ornate cup she bought, and there are dishes in the cabinets that don't really match, and their pillows are starting to smell more like her than just how intoxicating he smells with the floral aroma of Gain laundry detergent, and it's really nice. Perfect, even.

Whenever her dad really thinks about it, he says things like, "He was always such a good kid," in that weird approving way he's always supported her with. He wasn't really a good kid, but she knows what her dad means, that he's a good man, and her mom gives her this look like she knew it'd be like this all along, and well - her sisters always liked him. They come over for dinner and eat Chinese take-out on their mismatched dishes often enough to drive Thomas a little crazy, but it's hilarious.

Except sometimes he forgets to call and some nights she wakes up to him holding her like he's worried she'll just disappear, and it's never really been worse since that one devastating fight that had her worried this was really it.

They argue a lot, sure, about stupid stuff that doesn't mean anything until he funnels his frustration into washing the dishes and leaves red flowers on the nightstand for the days he's being particularly trying and wondering why she's still here, maybe. They're far from perfect, but it feels like they are and will be.

Tonight, though, he left in a dark red rage, slammed the door behind him with a force that shook the apartment, shattered her ribs.

She wasn't scared of him; it just hit her all at once that she was terrified of him storming out the door and never bothering to come back. The dish she was washing in the sink broke in her hands.

Eight minutes she stands lethargic in the open kitchen lights waiting for the slot of his key to sound his return, but each drawn out second of nothing makes this tiny apartment even smaller, even emptier. Her throat makes a cry when she sees his coat thrown over the chair in the living room where he left it with the burgundy scarf her mom knitted for him last Christmas, and because she's a woman, because she's independent, because she learned to quiet that hopeful part of her thirteen year old Angelica wondering if he was the one each time he smiled at her with his ridiculous grin. She pushes her arms into his black coat's too long sleeves, hugs it around her and then.. well, it's sorta fabulous, and she really likes the ways it goes to her knees. When she finds Thomas, she's gonna try to keep it.

She races down to the lobby, ready to search everywhere for him, but the second of her eyes adjusting to the one AM dark shows him sitting on the steps of the apartment building. His shoulders are straight and broad, and his bare arms look cold around the sleeves of his Oakland t shirt, and the dim lights over the door is lighting a quarter of his face, catching in his dark eyes. She slowly plops herself next to him on the creaking wooden steps, hears him draw in a slow breath that warms her just a little.

"You didn't get too far," she says quiet, quieter since the sky is so still and silent and starry.

He shakes his head. "Nope."

She wants to ask if he's done running, if maybe he's just tired, if she's done anything to make him mad. She doesn't, just watches him turn to face her, their knees bumping.

"Kiss me," he tells her.

She shakes her head because she knows that tone of voice and the look in his eyes even if she can barely see them. He raises his hand to touch her cheek, so gentle still, so damn cold, and he's so ridiculous. They both are. "But I'm mad at you," she protests lightly, only half-meaning it. She tilts her cheek in his hand to kiss his rough palm, and it's so easy to lean into him when he opens his arms. "You can't just kiss my anger away."

"Then stop kissing mine," he huffs. As cold as his skin is, his mouth's so warm. He tastes like temperament and wholesomeness and the rest of her life.

* * *

 **a/n: quick little oneshot because I ship these two idiots so much. i hope you all enjoyed, if you did please make sure to leave a review. love, em**


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